


A Whisper, A Kiss, A Curse

by Elywyngirlie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A cottage on the sea, Cornwall, Dark, Deathly Hallows, F/M, Gothic, Hard working Hermione, Jane Eyre influenced, Kelpies, Light Ron Bashing, Mentions of Suicide, Murder Mystery, Not Beta'd, Romance, Tom Returns, dramione ending, dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26046595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elywyngirlie/pseuds/Elywyngirlie
Summary: Hermione Granger, fresh off her break up with Ron Weasley, flees to Cornwall to gather her wits and to solve the mystery of stolen kelpie skins. She is hosted by the dark and handsome Tom, lord of an isolated manor overlooking the storm tossed sea. Libraries overrun with books, both magical and muggle. Dark artifacts. Rooms sealed off. And Tom, her only ally, an aloof gentleman, fascinated by her magic, his dark mien hauntingly familiar.Mysterious and alluring, he brings her even further into a murder mystery that spans the entire island that leaves her facing a magnitude of darkness on her own.Tomione with Dramione ending.Inspired by Jane Eyre & Mexican Gothic
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 13
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not British but I'm googling. Please let me know if I've got something wrong. 
> 
> Unbeta'd cuz I'm just trying to get a fic done and out the door.

Ron Weasley was a prat. No, more than that, he was a git. An utter rotten piece of shit. A total slag. An absolute tosser. She had no clue what she had seen in him in the first place. The Battle of Hogwarts must have made her stupid, she thought. It was a reasonable position to take. One too many stunners to the head.

Far more reasonable than the position Ron was in with Romilda Vane. The anger rose again and Hermione shook her head, shoving clothes in her bag, the Muggle way. The way that she could never abandon, apparently.

“Come off it, Hermione. You’ve always overreacted,” Ron said from behind the protective wall she had thrown as soon as Romilda had fled. He reached up to scratch his chin and Hermione’s nostrils flared. He had distinct red slashes down his shoulders that could only have come from Romilda’s slut red nails. He had a love bite on his neck.

“How can you stand there, with a love bite on your neck, and ask me that?” She was pleased at how cold she sounded. She summoned the last of her toiletries and shoved them in her small bag.

“Where do you think you’re going? You don’t exactly have the best relationship with your parents. And you know how Harry hates to be in the middle.”

“The middle of what, Ron? You cheated on me. We made a promise to one another.”

Ron whined: “Hermione, you are always too busy at work. What’s a bloke supposed to do? I have needs too, you know. Ones you never meet!” She gasped and planted her hands on her hips.

“How dare you make this about me fucking up!” She was screeching now, she knew it, but she couldn’t seem to stop. She ran a hand through already wild curls and snarled. “You and I are done, Ron. Absolutely done.”

Ron smirked and leaned against the doorway. “And how do you imagine you’re getting out? The Floo is past me.”

Hermione shook her head. “No wonder you never went back for your NEWTs. You’d fail all of them.” With a flick of her wrist, she disabled the anti apparition wards around their flat--the ones she had set up, the flat she paid for--and with a twist, she was gone. Hermione landed on her feet in the Forest of Dean, rage coursing through her, her pulse a short jab in her neck. She kicked at the ground and the damp leaves scattered. She hurled a curse at a tree, the trunk shattering, wood flying everywhere as birds flew away squwaking loudly.

Hermione slumped to her knees, a sob threatening to work its way out of her throat. She dashed away the hot tears and loathed each one spent on him. She couldn’t do it. She had wasted years with him and she didn’t want to cry anymore. She wouldn’t do it anymore, she vowed.

Releasing the sob, Hermione scrubbed her face. Her cheeks were wet and she sniffled. Where to go? She was due some time from the Ministry. But the thought of wallowing somewhere felt like cowardice. No, she had to do work. Hermione sat up as she remembered the request that had arrived at the Ministry last week. A collection of kelpies had requested assistance down in Cornwall and her partner had found a cottage that was open for letting. Autumn meant less visitors and the rate was quite good.

Hermione shook her head and took stock of her appearance. She had just come from the office so she was in her tailored robes. Draco Malfoy, in a fit of either kindness or piquancy, had taken her under his wing and had crafted her a wardrobe that earned her respect. He had taught her that labels matter, that her hair for the day would determine the success of her legislation far more than the actual words on parchment. He said it was in return for her testimony at his trial.

He was still a terrible liar.

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat and closed her eyes. She thought about her family’s vacation in Cornwall. Destination, Determination, and Deliberation. With a turn of her heel, with the uncomfortable sensation of being squished into a rubber tube, Hermione found herself on the beaches outside of Pendeen in Cornwall. The village looked much like she remembered it and Hermione hurried into town to an inn she remembered from a trip with her parents almost a decade ago. To her delight, the Fisherman’s Cove was still open, the grey stone worn, the shingles fading in the bright sun.

Hermione secured a room, the innkeeper relieved to have someone for a few days. In villages like these, Hermione knew the magical community was small and hidden. Hermione stepped down into the dining room and surveyed the dark quarters. Exposed beams overhead and small windows gave it a dim look. Golden light from older light bulbs filled in the gaps best it could. Her stomach grumbled at the sharp warm smell of fish and chips and a quick glance at her watch told her it was seven thirty.

Her business with the cottage would need to wait until tomorrow for her to ring them up and request the room now,she thought, as she slipped into a seat. A group of older men were crowded around the bar, shouting at a rugby match on the television. A family sat in a booth, a teenage son ignoring his mom as he flipped through a comic. In the corner, a couple was entwined around one another. She pushed down the bile rising in her throat and studied her menu.

“Here on your own, love?” An older woman bustled over, a towel in her hand, slapping it on some tables to frighten off invisible dust.

“Yes, here visiting before I go on to St Just for work,” Hermione replied. The woman nodded as if it weren’t unusual for people to stay in the larger village.

“Makes sense you’re here as the inn there is closed for renovations. The bus leaves from the bakery across the way and it's just a 5 minute ride,” the woman informed her and Hermione nodded. She knew they were close.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“If you’ve traveled all day, I’d recommend the fisherman’s pie. We got the last of some garden peas in and I can do you a nice salad with some fresh tomatoes.”

“Sounds great. And a pint of Boddingtons,” Hermione added with her thanks. She remembered her dad cracking a Boddingtons before every cricket or football match on the television. It wasn’t as good as butterbeer but she didn’t want to drown herself in whiskey. She would never give Ron the satisfaction.

Instead Hermione pulled out a pen and notepad. She scribbled a note to Draco and when no one was looking, she charmed it to appear in Draco’s dining room. She told him where she was and briefly what happened. She knew he would gloat and requested that he keep his opinion to himself. She requested the files on the kelpies as she was on a work vacation. She then pulled out a book and enjoyed the beer. The dinner had just arrived when the pub door opened and an elegant gentleman stepped into the room.

Hermione groaned as he made a beeline toward her and took the chair opposite. He had a set of files tucked under his arm. 

“Good evening, Granger. Hiding out, I see?” Hermione shook her head and held out her hand.

“You have my files. Please give them to me.”

Draco tsked and wagged his finger. The woman came over with a bright smile pasted on her face. Hermione groaned. They always thought he was some sort of lord or something.

“Excuse me, sir, what may I get you?” Draco politely ordered a whiskey and refused any food. The woman blushed at his compliment about her place and she returned with twice the amount of liquid than usual in a crystal cut tumbler. Draco flashed a smile and Hermione took a bite of her fish, ignoring the tete a tete. She was used to it by now.

“Granger, as your partner, I can’t believe you just up and left like that. We have a summit in a week, you know.” He sounded quite grave but she noted the concern in his eyes.

“I just want to gather some information that’s all.”

“You can do that and come back in a day.”

“I want to take a few, get a lay of the land,” she retorted. Draco snorted and snagged a pea off her plate, popping it in his mouth. He made a pleased noise and she massaged her temples. He finally handed over the files and she duplicated her fork with a silent geminio so that he could continue to pick at her peas.

“He didn’t deserve you, you know.”

“I told you, I didn’t want to talk about it.”

Draco huffed and shoved her plate away. “Then what do you want to talk about, hmm? The kelpies?”

“Yes, quite,” she replied and went back to her reading. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Hermione,” he began slowly as if each word were a lodestone around his neck. “We need you to help coordinate this summit. And you can’t hide. It lets Weasley win too much. He’s already in the Leaky parading Vane around. It’ll be in the Prophet tomorrow.”

Hermione licked her lips. “I imagine it will. And Ron will get his beloved press.”

“He’s a wanker. You deserve better.”

“So you’ve said. Repeatedly.”

Draco sighed and drained his glass. He regarded her with an inscrutable look that had Hermione ducking her head, sure that he would see whatever he was looking for her in her eyes. He always told her that her face was too expressive. He was too, she would argue, to which he would reply only because she knew him. She had learned to read the twitch around his eyes when he was tired; she had learned to read the way his nail would slowly scrape down his chin when his anger was simmering; she had learned to read the way his lips would thin and would immediately intervene between him and Weasley. That meant a curse was bubbling up and she really didn’t want to have Harry clean up that sort of mess again.

His long fingers tapped his glass and she looked up before closing her eyes. Pity and kindness were clear on his face. And she didn’t want either of it.

“I’ll issue a statement on your behalf.”

“Thank you.” There was a scraping sound of wood dragged against wood and she watched him adjust his coat. He opened his mouth and her lip trembled. He sighed again and cupped her cheek.

“I’ve still got that flat in St James. You know the one I was staying at when we were renovating the manor? You can go there. I’ll owl you the details. And I’ll take care of the cottage we found down on the shore.”

She reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly. She had never imagined that she and Draco would have become friends. But shoved together, with his role in International Magical Cooperation and hers in Magical Creatures, had meant hours in each other's company, heads bent over parchment, meetings with reluctant wizards. It was still fresh and might easily be broken. But here he was, seeking her out, to offer comfort. And she had gone to him first rather than Harry. She didn’t want to consider what it meant.

With that, Draco left and Hermione settled in for the night. To her surprise, she fell immediately asleep.

Draco had been true to his world and everything had been arranged by the time she was up in the morning. His owl was sitting patiently outside her window and she took it gratefully, reviewing the details for the cottage. It was owned by the Cadwell family and sat on the manor grounds overlooking the sea. He was the son of a wizard, but a squib himself, and the kelpies knew his land was safe for their mating rituals. But something had been stalking them and stealing their pelts and their magic, leaving men and women stranded.

Some had committed suicide as they had felt their magic leaving them.

Hermione studied the cottage. It stood near the top of the cliff, the waves crashing below, as the wind whipped her hair in front of her face. She waved her wand to tie it up in a tight bun as thunder rumbled over ahead. A freak and sudden storm, the fishermen had been saying when she left the inn.

The cottage itself was white washed with a thatched roof. The last of the summer roses lined the walkway. Near the gate lounged a tall, lithe man with dark hair, a gleaming Land Rover parked nearby. The manor must be wealthy, she thought, as she strode toward him.

“Miss Granger?” the man nearly shouted over the wind. She nodded and he gestured for her to follow him inside. The cottage was quite pleasant, she decided. An Aga stove squatted in the corner and the man already had a fire lit in the cozy sitting room. The furniture was older, heavy and Victorian, she mused, running an appreciative hand over the back of the sofa. A desk was nestled under the corner of a window that looked out to the sea.

“Upstairs is the bedroom and the bath. The pipes can squeak a bit when first getting started but everything works,” he was explaining as he pointed out other features. Hermione nodded along and held out the check. He waved it away.

“I’ll take it afterwards. I know your ministry is good for it. I’ve had a couple officials down here before. Cornwall’s littered with artifacts, you know.” He offered his hand and she took it. It was warm and dry and she felt the calluses along the palms and fingertips. He worked his land, she thought with surprise.

“Tom,” he offered. “None of that lord stuff.” Rain began to pelt against the windows, a hard lashing that told of a difficult afternoon ahead.

Hermione blushed. “The Ministry thanks you again, sir. I should only be here for a couple of days. You know the kelpies?”

“It’s Tom and yes I do. I sent word you were coming. They should come in tomorrow. They prefer dawn or twilight. Easier that way.”

“I’d imagine dawn would be risky with the fishermen going out.”

“Yes but our cove is mostly hidden from view. The tip of the peninsula protects it.” Hermione nodded and Tom licked his lips. He towered over her with broad shoulders and bright dark eyes. She could feel his gaze roving over her body and she lifted her chin. A part of her whispered that an affair was just what she needed. She shoved it down.

“I’ll let you get settled in and then tea at the manor? It’s only a mile from here, up the hill. I’ll pick you up if the rain won’t let up.” He pointed to the telephone and let her know the direct extension to the manor’s kitchen. “The housekeeper will probably load you up with some food too.”

“I can just apparate…”

“Nonsense, we’ve got plenty.” He took his leave then, reminding her that he'd call before tea to see if she needed a lift, and then he dashed out into the rain, his dark curls soaked before he got into the car. Hermione watched him crank the engine and sent a drying charm his way. He looked startled through the window before grinning. It lit up his whole face and her heart lurched.

Hermione turned away and looked at the flames crackling merrily. No, she did not need an affair.


	2. Chapter 2

Her mobile didn’t work this far out so Hermione dug around her bag for the calling card she often carried. She immediately rang up her parents and her mum coolly informed her that Draco had thoughtfully let them know. 

“Especially in light of the Prophet news. How shameful,” her father added from the background. Hermione bit her lip. She had gotten her parents a subscription to keep them involved in the wizarding world as part of her apology tour for oblivating them. It wasn’t enough, she knew, there would never be enough apologies. But she was trying. 

“Draco has become much nicer to you,” her mum pointed out. “He seems like a real friend.”

“Yeah unlike Ron. I knew he wasn’t good enough for my girl,” her dad said. Hermione rolled her eyes. 

“Dad,” she said, drawing out his name.

“I told you that he wasn’t right for you. I’m glad you aren’t getting married. He was always jealous of you. You need a man who can hold you up, be proud of you,” her father rambled with her mum making encouraging noises. Hermione let them rant on her behalf, taking comfort at their anger with Ron. They could do it. She wouldn’t be allowed. Especially with the front page of the Prophet. 

After ending her call with them, she ventured upstairs, delighted by the warm and inviting bedroom. The bed was overly large and for a moment, her chest felt hollowed out by the idea of this place as an ideal romantic vacation. She tried to imagine her and Ron together in the large bed but could only hear Ron’s whining that there was no television. Sighing, she checked the bathroom and let out a happy squeal at the large slipper tub. It sat underneath a window, giving her a view of the cove, the grey waves crashing into the rocks, the rain lashing the sea. It was quite romantic and she rubbed her chest as the ache took root. 

Feeling guilty, Hermione decided to call Harry. He was quite comfortable with a mobile and carried one with him constantly. It was part of his initiative to collaborate more with a division within Scotland Yard. He carried an honorary DS badge and she knew he was quite proud of it. 

“How are you Hermione?” he asked without preamble. She licked her lips and insisted she was fine. She could hear the auror pen in the background, someone yelling and then a crash. Harry’s wince was clear through the phone. 

“Sorry about that, cursed artifact winging around.”

“You should call down Draco,” she said and he grumbled something. “You know Harry he’s made some real strides in showing he’s learned his lesson.”

“Ah yes the muggleborn academy. Buying his way back into good graces.” Hermione glowered at the phone. Not this debate again. “Anyways, Ginny and I are quite angry with Ron, especially the fact that he went out after you left. Romilda is swanning around her like she’s won some sort of prize.” Outside the sea was growing more violent, the cove nearly hidden by the thrashing waves. Lightning forked in the sky and Hermione peeked out the window to see the bright flashes piercing the grounds around the manor on the hill.

The phone crackled and Harry’s tinny voice faded for a moment before the boisterous background from the office surged in volume. Hermione jerked her head away before confirming Harry was online. 

She continued: “He is part of the Golden Trio, Harry. An Order of Merlin winner. A prize indeed.” She didn’t stop the bitterness from escaping and Harry made some vague comforting noises. Ginny had yelled at Ron. Mrs Weasley had barred Romilda from Weasley Sunday dinners. But she knew Molly would come around. Her son’s happiness was paramount. 

“You think you can forgive him?”

“Probably not. It’s a huge violation of trust. And he said it was my fault.” The hidden part, the secret shame, came so easily when talking with Harry. A tear slipped down her cheek and she batted it away with the back of her hand. Harry groaned into the phone, calling Ron a series of names. 

“You can stay at Grimmauld Place, if you need to, once you’re done in Cornwall. I need to go up to Scotland. Werewolves have been disappearing there and in Ireland. No trace.”

“Any disappearances in Wales?” If it was, she could hop on over and do some leg work. Avoid that summit. 

“Nope, just up north. But since Voldemort’s defeat, you know they’ve been up in Highlands, reshaping their society. Lavender has done a good job of working as a liaison between them.” Lavender had suffered at the hands of Greyback before his death. She had become furry once a month and rather than shirking from her fate, had decided to function as an ambassador. Hermione had been successful at getting the werewolves a temporary lift off the Magical creatures list. It made things like finding a job easier. The wolfsbane potion was distributed by the Ministry at a subsidized rate, backed by Malfoy Industries. They could bank in Gringotts. That such a fragile peace was threatened was alarming. 

“Who is harming creatures?” Hermione mused. Harry mentioned that the Death Eaters were rising up again and she waved it away. She knew Malfoy and Nott, the two biggest financial powerhouses for that group, were not interested. It would make it difficult for them to gain power again. 

“I need to go,” she said reluctantly, relishing the warm fuzzy feeling that talking with Harry left. 

“Don’t forget, you can stay at my place.”

“Oh thanks but Malfoy offered me one of his properties.”

“Hermione! That place is probably crawling with dark artifacts!” 

Hermione reprimanded him: “He’s a good friend to me. Besides, I’ve been in it before. It’s very modern, kind of Muggle, actually. It’s just temporary. The flat’s lease is in my name.” Harry mumbled something before saying goodbye and Hermione groaned as she dropped the phone back into the cradle. The rain was beginning to lessen and she realized she had time for a quick bath before heading up to the manor for tea. 

The sun was out and the air was warm when she finally ventured from the cottage. She wrapped her anorak around herself and cast a quick impervius on herself, especially on her tobacco colored boots. The hike was an easy one, up a gently rolling slope. She had to cut through a sharp briar thicket, fully of tangling vines, that parted easily before her wand. 

It dumped her out into a cemetery. And just beyond that was the manor itself. She watched an owl soaring overhead before wheeling away and wondered if the storm had confused them. A cloud drifted across the sun, throwing the cemetery into stark relief as she picked her way around the stones, her shoes squelching in the mud. Moss grew thick over some of the stones, simple gray crumbling things, underneath the shadow of the manor. She caught a few names--Nott, Gaunt, Avery. Her brows rose. 

It was rather Gothic, a full on arcade and flying buttresses. The west end was crumbling and she wondered if the young Cadwell wished he had magic to fix it. A light was on at the top of a tower and she wondered if he worked there. It would most likely give wonderful vistas, she thought, looking down the hill and into the sea itself. Ivy crawled over half the building and the fog from the rain curled along the ground. 

Hermione anticipated needing to march around to the front of the house but to her surprise, and delight, a thick wooden door opened and a matronly woman stepped out. She waved at Hermione, gesturing for her to enter into a large and airy kitchen. It was modern looking, with gleaming white tiles, and an industrial looking stove. The woman shooed her into a small sitting room where an afternoon tea was laid out by a leaded glass window. 

“So exciting to have someone from the Ministry here! Especially Miss Granger,” the woman cooed, introducing herself as Miss Nell. “I’ve got a nice tea set up for us. The master is upstairs but he’ll be down shortly.”

“Oh, in the tower? I saw the light on,” Hermione said as she settled into a large scarred chair. The furniture was mismatched but the china was fine and floral. The room felt old, the beams overhead thick and dark, the window looking out onto a garden, a gnarl of roses and lilies and english ivy. 

“No,no one works in the tower,” the housekeeper said. Hermione gave a puzzled smile at Miss Nell before her gaze was snagged by a newspaper folded nearby. It was the Daily Prophet and she stiffened. She reached for it, desperate to see what Ron had done when Miss Nell dashed the paper away. 

“Now, Miss Granger, no need for you to trouble yourself with the news,”she said, a pitying look in her eyes. Hermione swallowed and looked away, back at the spread. Thick ham sandwiches, beef and horseradish sandwiches, pork and apple sauce. A plate with thick fluffy scones, a few jars of clotted cream and jam, and a Victoria sponge. It was an afternoon tea of Ron’s dreams, she thought, blinking rapidly, stifling a sniffle. A door burst open and Tom strode in, boots dropping mud on the floor that had Miss Nell shaking her head and using a wand to banish it. 

“Good afternoon, Miss Granger. I’m glad you were able to make it.” He took the seat opposite and began to serve the tea. Hermione tucked a smile away at the lord of a manor pouring tea for a housekeeper and a lowly ministry employee. “That storm was just what we needed.”

“You work your own land then?”

“Of course. We Cadwells have always taken our fates into our own hands.” His eyes sparkled with mirth as he doctored his own cup with a cube of sugar and a splash of milk. Hermione sipped the tea, pleased that it was earl grey, a personal favorite. They spent a few moments loading up their plates and she nearly had to bite back a moan at the tender ham with the tomatoes squirting juices into her mouth. 

“Once we’re done here, I’ll give you a tour of the place,” Tom added. “We’ve got extensive grounds and a rather large library. Both magical and Muggle.” Hermione placed her hand over her mouth, chewing rather quickly. 

“Really? How, how does that work? With you being...non magical?” She didn’t know how to put it. Squib felt like a slur and nomaj wasn’t exactly a friendly term in the US. 

“We’ve always had a few Squibs in our family,” Tom replied, dropping the world casually, as if it bore no history of malice. “It happens time to time. And so we re-marry, bring in a witch or wizard from another family, and it seems to bring the magic back.”

“You...divorce a current spouse?”

“Amicably, of course. But continuing the line is important,” he said, brow furrowing, one curl dropping between his eyes. He hastily brushed it back. “I know that sounds calloused, believe me. It’s why I never could. It’s why the line will end with me or it won’t.” Hermione chewed thoughtfully as Miss Nell tutted over Tom, telling her that he was a good lad, always so kind and helpful. 

“And clever too! If you had gone to Hogwarts, you would have been one of the brightest wizards of our age!” Miss Nell said proudly. Tom quirked an elegant eyebrow at Hermione. 

“Well, considering our company, I am twice as humbled by your words,” he murmured, nibbling at his scone, bright red strawberry jam oozing over the side to splatter on his plate. He apologized and Miss Nell chuckled. Hermione blushed, ducking her head at her intrusion at a family gathering. 

“This is why I was able to get the Ministry’s attention, however. Our library, our history--we Cadwells have always been a part of the magical community so if we have a complaint--or carry one on behalf of a group--it’s heard.”

Hermione took a sip of tea. “Were your parents wizards?” Silence settled over the table, tines scraping over porcelain. Her gaze darted between the two, taking in Miss Nell’s downcast eyes. “Have I said something wrong?”

Tom cleared his throat. “No, I’m sorry. Both of my parents were magical, although their strength was weak. They were unable to stop my brother from joining the Death Eaters.” Hermione sat up straighter, fingers flicking toward her wand. She thought of the names in the cemetery and wondered if she had wondered into a trap. 

“Lady Cadwell died stopping him from leaving. And of course he died at the hands of that woman.”

Hermione’s brow lifted. “What woman?”

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” Tom replied. He ran the napkin over his lips before dropping it on the table and leaning back in the chair. He extracted a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and cranked the window open. His gold lighter flashed and the end of the cigarette burned. Hermione wandlessly and wordlessly cast an air filtration charm around her. Even magic couldn’t stop the effects of secondhand smoke. 

“You see, my brother wasn’t strong enough, he wasn’t dark enough. And when You Know Who demanded he complete a task, he hesitated. And that was that.” He flicked the cigarette, ash falling onto the plate. Miss Nell made a noise of disapproval and transfigured the plate into an ash tray.

“Charming, as always,” Tom said with a grin, placing the cigarette between his lips and sucking. Hermione’s stomach clenched and her hand drifted toward her arm, Bellatrix’s curse burning her flesh. Even now. 

She closed her eyes and drew her tea toward her. It was silent except for the wind rustling the trees, Miss Nell’s chomps on a beef sandwich, and Tom’s cigarette flaring as it burned away. Presently, he ground it into the tray. 

“Enough awkward talk. Let me take you to the library.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also may or may not be influenced by Mexican Gothic. Which is a great novel by Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Jane Eyre meets Lovecraft, 10/10 recommend.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione explores the library with Tom and finds herself in the throes of a wild dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for what can be read as a non con scene. Fic is tagged dub con but I realize some people might read this as non consensual.

To say that Hermione was overwhelmed by the library was an understatement. It was massive. It was glorious. It was at least three stories high and crammed with shelves in a neat order. Rather than shelves surrounding a sitting room, it had shelves marching down the expanse with nooks and crannies and window seats for reading. There were desks scattered and a few settees clumped together. It invited scholarship and silence and muffled tete a tetes. 

She was in love. 

She noticed a few areas of the book shelves were lined with glass which Tom explained housed various artifacts. She longed to have the time to explore them and take them out, experiment with them. Harry always said she might be better in the Department of Mysteries but Hermione wanted to make changes in the wizarding world. To improve people’s lives. And, to improve the lives of the muggleborns who came after her. 

“Here is one of the journals of Bridget Bishop,” Tom said casually, handing her a small book with a cracked leather cover. “You may remember her as one of the Salem witches.” Hermione nodded rapidly and delicately opened the cover to discover pages covered in scrawls and diagrams. She looked up to see Tom looking ather, head cocked, a thoughtful look on his face. 

“It details some of her experiments with spells and how she escaped with her life. You may find it interesting.” Hermione expressed her thanks and followed Tom deeper into the library. He pointed out some sections she might want to explore, offering the cottage to her for longer than the few days she was in town. 

“And here is where the works of muggleborns are collected,” he said, sweeping his arm to indicate several bookcases. 

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Why do you have them separate?”

Tom crooked a smile at her. “History is cyclical, Miss Granger. Some of the laws that the purebloods proposed have been proposed earlier. And have fallen. It’s important when researching precedence.” He licked his lips and waved his hand, a book sliding out and falling toward him. He caught it easily and Hermione’s mouth dropped open. 

“I thought...well, I mean I was told…” she stammered and Tom bowed his head, fingers flicking his curls back. 

“It’s not a lot. I can do small things like get books when I need them. Turn off the lights from bed when I’m too tired. Sometimes things I wish for appear suddenly. But I’ve been evaluated by both Dumbledore and by the staff at St Mungo’s. My magical core is underpowered. I could never fit in, say at Hogwarts.” His bottom lip trembled and his eyes darted away, the bob in his throat cleared as he swallowed. Sympathy welled up in Hermione but she was uncertain how to respond. Would comforting him be wrong? She realized she knew very little about Squibs and their community. 

Tom seemed to sense her discomfort and offered her a charming grin. He brushed her forearm as he handed her the book and Hermione flinched, curling the arm inward. Tom paused, dark gaze roving over her arm, hunger flickering in his eyes. 

“I’m sorry, is that where she…” Hermione’s face burned red. The story of Bellatrix Lestrange carving into her during her torture had been made public, somehow. It was supposed to have been secret, kept only to the Wizengamont during Draco’s trial. Someone leaked it. If Hermione hadn’t put a tracking charm on Rita Skeeter, she might have suspected that conniving woman. But it wasn’t her. It had to have been a pureblood, grasping for power. The Daily Prophet had exploded with coverage. Poor, brave, Hermione Granger. The picture had been particularly powerful, Harry’s arm around her waist as they walked out of the Wizengamot’s chambers. 

“May I?” he asked, palm upward, face flat. Biting her lip, Hermione pulled back her sleeve to reveal a nest of white scars. He frowned, long pale fingers ghosting over the raised skin. 

“Draco and I have been looking for a way to remove the dark mark,” she whispered. “We’ve been experimenting with potions and charms and curse breaking. We even had someone from Gringotts look at his. This...this right now is the best we can do.” It was better than mudblood, hot and stained against her skin. She had worn cardigans for most of the summer, refusing to even glance at the thing. The odd white slashes, the lightning forks on her flesh seemed a better alternative. The pain was rarely there anymore for her; she knew Draco still experienced sharp jabs, especially when he was mired in dark thoughts. 

Outside thunder munched and Hermione glanced out the window at the darkening sky. Another storm was rolling in. Odd, that, she thought. Cornwall typically didn’t experience wild weather like this. 

She abruptly asked: “Do you have any books on werewolves? Factual accounts, not wild fantasies.” Tom frowned, his pale fingers entwined around her wrist, thumb running circles into her skin. She swallowed hard, her stomach clenching. It had been quite a while since a man had touched her with such delicacy. Ron’s hands were rough and demanding. This tender caress, the rasp from his callous, sent a shiver down her spine. She jerked her arm back, flushing. 

“Our meeting with kelpies is at dawn. Let me get you your text on the wolves and on the kelpies and return you to the cottage before the storm hits again.” He jerked his head and she followed him, collecting the books he gave her, each expression of gratitude growing breathier. Lightning streaked across the sky and Hermione wondered if he would drive her down. A door slammed in the manor and she jumped. 

“You must have many servants,” she murmured and Tom shook his head. 

“Only a few. No house elves though,” he replied with a slanting look. She ducked her head and gave him a shy smile. She found herself studying him--his roman nose, his generous lips, the soft and obedient wave of his hair--as they tramped out to the car. Rain was splashing down as he trundled down the hill, the trip slightly longer as he stuck to the path. 

He parked in front of her cottage, jerking on the hand brake. “I’ll see you at dawn at your cottage. It’s a short trip down to the beach from here.” He gestured toward some stairs at the cliff edge and Hermione nodded, promising to be ready. She had plenty of time to study this evening and found the idea of cozying up with a few books to be comforting and enticing. Tom picked up her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles. The rain drummed loudly on the hood of the car and the air felt hot, windows covering in tendrils of fog. Her breath hitched as his kiss lingered. 

“Sweet dreams, Miss Granger,” he whispered, voice growing thicker. Hermione gave him a shaky smile and all but bolted into the cottage, rain sticking to her hair. She slammed the door, leaning against it, and covering her face. What was going on? Why was she acting like a hormonal teenager? She had just left a long term relationship. She should be feeling no compulsion toward anyone! 

But she thought of how long it had been since Ron had touched her. Praised her. Took her out for dinner or a drink. He said she was too busy at the Ministry and when she came home early, he begged off, complaining of exhaustion. At the Burrow, he and Harry would often spend time playing a game of pick up quidditch while she worked in the kitchen with Mrs Weasley or chatted with Bill and Fleur. Their drifting apart had been subtle, she realized, but inevitable. Their interests were never aligned. It had been over a month since Ron had given her more than a peck on the lips. 

And she hadn’t even missed it. 

No wonder her body was turning traitor and begging for more gentle touches and lingering kisses. Growling at herself, Hermione put on the kettle, promised herself that all she needed was tea and a good book to get herself into order. She spent a few hours perusing the materials for tomorrow before opening up the Bridget Bishop’s book, the storm abating. Hermione opened up the bedroom window a tad to let in the refreshing sea breeze. 

She quickly was entrenched in what surely had to be myth making. Bishop wrote that she had been hanged and had found herself in a crossroads, her heart no longer pumping, her lungs no longer whooshing with air. She was in a pure while land, as if waiting for someone to arrive. And then Death had, in all of his glory, gloomy cloak clinging to sharp bones. He had come to claim her and she discovered she was paralyzed with fear. 

Bridget decided to do what she did best: drive a hard bargain. 

Death agreed to give her an additional fifty years if she could find meet a few of his requirements. She must devote herself to him in her afterlife, reaping bodies, carrying souls. She wouldn’t age and would be forced to move frequently. She would lose her magic though, carrying only a spark. Unable to perform more than a simple summoning when intense need required it. 

Bridget had agreed. Her life was more important. She still had work to do. 

Hermione’s eyes grew wide at the implication. She closed the book, heart racing, as she compared Bridget’s experiences with Harry’s. But Bridget hadn’t detailed what Death had truly wanted. It wasn’t enough to have an assistant to reaping souls. There had to be something more. Something else to sweeten the pot. Her eyes grew heavy even as her mind tore through the possibilities. 

She snuggled into the comforters, pulling them up to her chin. Her breathing evened out as she fell deeper into sleep. She did not see the green mist curling under her window, dropping to her floor, steadily pacing toward her. She did not see it slip under her sheets. She did not see how her body writhed, a moan escaping, her spine arching. 

In her dreams, she was dancing with Tom in a dim ballroom. His hand was warm against her skin, her open back dress giving him access to her flesh, heat thrumming up her spine. He nosed her hair, lips leaving soft delicate kisses along her forehead. She leaned into him and found herself in an opulent bed, Tom at the foot of it, a pleased smile curving along his features as he unbuttoned her shirt. 

She was begging for him. Her body twitched and she cried out. 

He crawled toward her, hot kisses searing her skin. Her nails dug into his back. He sucked at the hollow of her throat, his thumb delicately trailing across her slit, dancing away from her clit, leaving her panting into his mouth. He was greedy, hand gripping her neck tight as he left hard biting kisses on her mouth, her jaw, her ears. She mewled as he gave into her rolling hips, pinching her clit between long, lithe fingers. She begged for him, promised him anything if he could just give her release. He grinned, his teeth sharper, his eyes flickering with red. 

He slid a finger inside of her and she wanted more. She was rudely flipped over, gripping the back of the headboard, her own fingers furiously finding release as he thrust hard inside of her. Never like this, never with Ron, she panted, demanding he move faster, and he whispered that she was his good girl, that he wanted her like this forever, on her knees in front of him. He pummeled her and she clawed the pillows as the orgasm tore through her. 

Hermione bolted upright in bed, a scream ripped through her as her body pulsed. Her vision whited and she trembled. As she flopped back into the bed, her heart pounding, she spied something green slipping out her window. Alarmed, she grabbed her wand and leapt from the bed.

And froze as something wet slid down her thighs. 

She was soaked, she realized, face crimson, her frame still wracked with pulses and she stumbled, hands catching her as she fell to the ground. 

What the hell was that?!, she thought. 

She did not sleep for the rest of the night. 


End file.
